


Save Tonight

by RhetoricFemme



Series: Imitation of Life [3]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Coming Out, Day One: Ambition; Growing Up, Growing Up, M/M, Marco Bodt Appreciation Week, overly ambitious morsel with a plan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 18:40:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5938996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhetoricFemme/pseuds/RhetoricFemme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco Bodt is a textbook Type A kind of guy about to graduate from high school. But first, he's gearing up to have a heavy conversation with his parents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> First off, major thanks to Cobalt-Bleu and FlecksofPoppy for organizing Marco Bodt Appreciation Week! <3
> 
> The following piece of writing is a side piece of sorts, for one of two JM stories I've had in the works for about two years. While this oneshot is Marco's first-person POV, I'm uncertain if the actual story will end up that way. Regardless of all that, I'm excited to share it with all of you, and would appreciate comments or constructive criticism immensely.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

_Save tonight / fight the break of dawn / come tomorrow / tomorrow I’ll be gone_  
\--Eagle-Eye Cherry

//

Last week of May. It’s always a bit too humid in Trost this time of year. Even so, this heat means nothing to me as I’m driving home in my old Sunbird, its vents trying their damnedest to give me cool air. All I can think about is the fact that this week—this very particular week with all of its ends and beginnings—is finally here.

High school is done. My time running with a life-changing, door-opening team is coming to an end. I’ve got something like three or four weeks left at my afterschool job (that’s three or four weeks of full-time job, right?), and then I’m off to college.

On top of that, I’ve got one other personal deadline ahead of me. More than the rest, this one is planted right at the front of my mind, and for good reason.

Before the week is up, what is essentially the final week of my adolescent life, I’ll be informing my parents that their one and only son is gay.

I’ve had this planned for quite some time, now. To the point where I’m overanalyzing things way too much. Having to talk myself out of thinking that I’m a coward for waiting until graduation to tell them about this. A life-altering dine-and-dash, if you will.

But no, it’s actually not like that at all. I know my parents, and I love them. And I know they’re going to be upset. Heart-crushingly upset. At least one of them is bound to be angry, and they’re going to need time. The way I see it, at this point in my life I’ve managed to demonstrate my abilities as a hardworking, ambitious human being. This way I get to skip over whatever suspicions they might have that being gay is going to derail my life.

See, my parents are _those_ parents. Those people, who any other time I would shake my head at and walk away from, because why bother with such ignorance?

That’s the thing, though.

I don’t know how I ended up saddled with the sort of life where I’ve got two insanely conservative parents and a blatant attraction toward men, but I think can handle it. I’m hoping that with a little bit of time, and me being away at college, they’ll start to miss their little boy and they’ll be able to handle it, too.-

Somewhere around last winter break is when I began seriously trying to figure out how to tell them. I’ve known long enough, and it’s all starting to feel a little ridiculous.

And when to tell them.

Hell if I could figure that one out. I’m not even in the closet, per se. Not in, not out. Just going day-to-day. It’s just my parents who don’t know. Who wants to talk to their parents about their sexual preferences, anyway, right? Just. No.

So I asked them to let me start seeing a therapist. If that wasn’t a shock in itself, right? After assuring them it had nothing to do with drugs, and no, I didn’t get anyone pregnant, Mom and Dad unbristled a little. Enough for them to take me at my word when I told them it had to do with the stress of unraveling all the options staring me down in the near future. That I wanted—needed—someone who didn’t know anything about my world to give me some unbiased advice. And no, sorry Mom, this time around Pastor Nick will not suffice.

It’s been a contemplative, but good final half of the school year. Outside of slow-crawling anticipation for all the good things that lay ahead of me, I can’t really find anything to complain about.

That’s not to say that I’m naïve about any of this. I’m not entirely sure what to expect, but nothing about this is going to be sugar-coated. I know, but I’m fine with that. They’ll be confused or mad, but I’m hoping it’s only for a little while. And anyways, I haven’t told them a thing yet. So I still smile when I catch the soft glow of lamplight drifting down the street. It’s been a long day, and it’s just good to be home.

Pulling up to the curb, I can make out the last of the sunset peeking out from between the leaves of the old cherry tree on our front lawn. Orange and pink blazing so bright it seems afraid of being forgotten. The sorry old tree stands in the center of the yard, older than my own seventeen years, losing branches to disease left and right. It would be summer soon, a fact that did nothing to keep its leaves from falling to the ground whenever the wind hit just right.

Grabbing my backpack from the passenger seat, I leave my work shirt on the headrest and start to make my way toward the house. I’d grown up in this house, and could recount endless memories throughout its various rooms, and the front and back yards, alike. Regardless of me imagining Connie running Sasha around on his shoulders at eight, twelve, or seventeen years old, or the first time I snuck on top of the roof, I couldn’t help but wonder if my peaceful days of feeling at home were now drastically numbered. I tell myself to chill out, to settle down, intead.

Tuesdays are the longest day of the week for me. Up before the sun, I try to put in at least five miles before heading to school. Then it’s off to work for a few hours, followed by an evening session with Dr. Ackerman before heading home, where I’m mostly thankful to be, now. There’s still some last minute studying to do, but even that sounds inviting, considering I could do it from the comfort of my bed.

Unfortunately, it seems as though all that is going to have to wait. Coming up the center of the lawn, my pace slows automatically upon seeing my mother and father appear from the side of the old wraparound porch. The mood doesn’t seem to match up with the casual expressions the two of them are sporting, and I’m forced to ask myself if they know something I don’t know. Or if they know something I think they don’t know. I don’t know.

Typically, they’d each be doing their own thing at this time of night. I’d get home, rummage the fridge, head upstairs, and each of them would greet me somewhere along the way.

For now, I’ll feign ignorance and pretend not to know why I’m left suddenly feeling like this is their version of an ambush.

“Hey, Mom. Dad.”

My mother smiles sweetly at me, her eyes turning into crescent moons, making it easier to see the little constellations of freckles across the apples of her cheeks. My father nods his greeting, turning to look me straight in the face.

“Marco.” He says. “Long day.”

I nod back. “It’s Tuesday. What’s up?”

Mom is motionless, still smiling, her hands tucked beneath the arms she’s folded across her chest. Apparently it’s up to Dad to make the first move.

“Nothing much.” When my father said it was nothing, it usually ended up being something. He brought one arm to rest on the back of my shoulders. “Your mother and I have been thinking, though, Marco.”

Okay, so they’ve been thinking. Fantastic. There isn’t really anything else for me to say to that. Instead I smile in a way that invites him to go on.

“Your mother and I’ve been thinking,” he repeats, “about how busy you are.”

I scan my mind at this statement, trying to remember a moment in my life where I haven’t been busy.

“I’m fine.” I assure them, looking first at my mom then back to my father. “Cross country is pretty much done, and tomorrow is the last of my finals. We’re a week away from graduation. If anything, I’m less busy.”

“Well, you’re not wrong about that. Be that as it may, your mother and I feel like you’ve been burning the candle at both ends.”

If that’s how it is, then one could easily say that it was some time during my Freshman year that I lit both sides of the wick. So close to the finish, and _now_ you’ve got something to say?

Apparently, I’m wearing my disbelief on my face, because this is the moment my mother decides to step in.

“Marco, sweetie.”

“Mom?”

“You’re going off to college soon, and we just think that you might consider dropping a little something from your plate.”

I choose my tone carefully, going for a touch of confusion, or maybe concern. If it’s really what I think they’re getting at, then what I really want to convey is a sense of utter annoyance and disbelief.

“I’m graduating next week,” I smile. “Tomorrow is my last exam, and then I’ve got my last run with Trost. I’m already dropping several things from my plate.”

“We know, sweetie. But if you plan on picking up extra hours at work, and you’re still cross-training for U of S, and then there’s prepping for your open house… Your father and I were thinking that maybe you might want to hold off on your visits with Dr. Ackerman.”

_What. Yes, because one night a week is fast becoming a hindrance to everything else going on in my life._

Just like that, the conversation is over. I take a deep breath, remembering to maintain my smile as I move past them and into the house, muttering something about how my schedule is just fine, thank you, and sorry but I still have some studying left to do. It had only been some time during the last few months that I’d become somewhat catty. It’s as if I’ve been trying to rev myself up for something big, but don’t know how.

See? I need a therapist.

And people think Jean has an attitude. Trust me, it’s much more effective when you usually keep your tone dialed down. No one ever sees it coming.

It’s at this point that my father blurts out exactly what it is he and my mother have been thinking this entire time.

“Why do you need to see a therapist?” He does his best to keep his voice under control. “We’re your _parents_! You should be talking to us.”

The expressions on their faces are the same. Confusion as to why a perfectly functional teenaged boy would request his parents’ permission to see a therapist.  It’s an insult that for whatever reason, their son would rather talk to a stranger than share the depths of his worries with his mom and dad. I can’t help but wonder if they ever considered that I needed to talk to an outsider in order to figure how to honestly share with them, in the first place.

My dad sighs so hard, it’s like I can see the frustration rolling off of him. Tension fills the three feet standing between us, and I swear, that thick, muddied mood has built up exponentially. Probably in order to make up for the fact that this has never happened to any of us before. If this is the punishment I get for being a Stepford son, then I’m sorry. I take it all back. I should’ve paid better attention those times Jean threw fits in front of both his parents and me at the same time.

“Marco.” He sighs. “Can’t you just tell us?  We’re paying for you to see Dr. Ackerman. Don’t you think you owe us that much?”

_Seriously?_

Who does that? Who _says_ that? I might not be that brave, but I am an excellent planner, and I’ll be damned if I’m not doing this my way.

Deep breaths. “It’s just stress is all.”

“Stress.” Mom is silent, Dad almost incredulous. It’s not as if I’m rebelling, and without committing an action of outright defiance, the two of them are left not knowing what to do. They’re both still staring at me. Of the two of them, Dad has always been the one with the bigger temper. So why does he strangely seem like the empathetic one, here?

“Just stress?”

I nod slowly, letting the gesture speak for itself, the movement final and concise while I look him in the eye.

He must’ve seen something, there. He shook his head in that way he did whenever he was at a loss. It wasn’t often that my father found himself at a loss, and it usually involved the opinion of some pundit or personality he disagreed with. Never from somewhere within his own life.

“Alright.” Dad resigns. “If that’s the way it’s got to be. If that’s what’s going to help.”

It feels like nothing more than a stall. I feel nothing in the way of relief as he brings his arm back around my shoulder, lightly kneading the tired fabric of my old cross country shirt.

“Thanks, Dad. Just until graduation, I promise.”

“It’s fine.”

Taking my mother by the hand, the other one still wrapped around my shoulder, he leads the three of us toward the house. I recognize the apprehensive smile on my mom’s face. It’s the one she usually reserves for when her sister visits these days. Caught up in her mind, unable to reconcile something or other, and clearly having no idea what to say.

“Mom?”

“What is it, Marco?”

“Talk to me?”

That ominous smile refuses to leave, but something seems to soften in her face.

“I’m just curious.”

“What?”

“I don’t understand why you can’t open up to your mother.” Her voice is caught somewhere between apologetic and convicting. It leaves me feeling cold, seeing her try so hard to keep tears and frustration bottled up inside, wondering what might be wrong,and if her reaction might somehow make things worse. We must be thinking the same thing. What kind of son makes his mother cry?

“I’m sorry.” And I really am.

“You’d tell us if you were in trouble.” She says. It’s not a question. I know better.

“Yes.” I assure her, “Although, you did a good enough job raising me that I doubt I’ll ever get into this trouble you speak of.” I poke her in the arm, and it earns me a sweeter, more natural smile.

“I know, sweetie. And I’m not asking you to tell me. But if it’s just stress… Have you tried talking to Jean?”

Immediately, my mind begins to wander to different times, different places. More specifically, it settles on the AP biology study session we’d held the night before. Something about losing an article of clothing for every wrong answer.  An hour later, and all either of us had managed to lose was a hoodie and a pair of socks before someone got impatient and took matters into his own hands.

Oh. I’ve spoken with Jean.

“I’m more comfortable talking with Dr. Ackerman, Mom. Jean’d listen in a heartbeat, but he’s got his own stuff to worry about, and I’m not about add my stress onto his.”

Even if he wants me to.

It’s not as though I’m not myself around them. My parents know who I hang out with, my interests, and my aspirations, inasmuch as I know them, myself. I have no personality façade to speak of. I’ve never gone out of my way to provide them misinformation. Although, to be honest, there _is_ a severe lack of sharing any personal information.

I’m proud to say that not once in my young adult life have I ever lied to my parents. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Right? I’d like to think that if one of them ever asked why I’ve never had a girlfriend that I would just come right out and tell them.

That’s the thing, though. My parents know me. So obviously, neither of them would ever think to ask such a ridiculous question.

//

Strict was never a word I would have used to describe my parents. Short-sighted, outspoken, and critical of the world, sure. But not strict. For as long as I can remember, my judgment has been one of the few things they’ve never called into question.

For the most part, they approve of my friends, and a curfew has always been a foreign concept to me. I mean, my mom couldn’t help but gush at how adorable it was the first time she watched me pour a mug of coffee, all the way back when I was fourteen.

Needless to say, I’ve been a good kid.

Admittedly, I’ve made it pretty easy for them to love me. You could say that years of observing my parents in their natural habitat have given me an edge as to how to please them. Mine has been an adolescence of compliance so flawless, that by the time I was a Sophomore they never bothered telling me what to do. This was what helped show me the way to their hearts, and along the way I’ve adopted a certain three-step mantra.

  1. Take all the advanced classes, and bring home grades worth bragging about to their coworkers and friends. It’s not that they’re the bragging sort, but I prefer to give them the option if they ever want to.



 

  1. Choose a sport the first year of high school, and commit to it. Be an asset, not a liability to the team. I chose two. What’s more, I chose two that occur within the same season. Not easy, but possible. Soccer is fun, and I’m good at it. Plus, I get to play with Jean, so there’s that.  
  
But it’s cross country that I live for. It’s a team sport and you encourage others, yeah. But seriously, you’re left to your own pace and are simply expected to make it from point A to point B. Never mind the sometimes rough terrain, or how mind-numbingly flat the course can sometimes be. That’s not a problem. I can handle that.  

  2. My dad has been going since he was in the cradle, and plans on making the church his last stop before hitting the grave. My mom is a born-again Christian whose black and white lenses hold her world firmly in place. My role in all of this is to show up with a smile on my face every Sunday morning, chat with the elders, and bite off a piece of bread to publicly display my spiritual soundness of mind. And to make them all think I believe in it.  
  
Now, don’t get me wrong. Honestly, some of the best people I know are devout, non-judgmental, church-going people. I even have my own thoughts on who and what God is. It just so happens that those ideas don’t necessarily align with all of my mom or dad’s thoughts and views.  
  
To date, this has never been an issue. They assume I believe precisely as they do, and I’ve got years of experience in their ways and particular brand of theology to have whatever conversation they’re looking to have. My prayers are real, even if my utterances are different from theirs. And I’m forced to wonder if they’ve ever noticed that I never use personal pronouns during those various religious conversations. Probably not.



More than once, I’ve caught myself wondering if what I’m doing is wrong. I’m probably just paranoid, and selling my parents short because of it. Overreacting to the point of tracking every move I make, as if it were a piece of currency I could use to buy their approval at the end of the day.

They’re my parents. Of course they love me. It went without saying that they were proud of me. Hell, what was there to even wonder? They flat out _tell_ me they’re proud of me.

That alone is something I should be able to bank on, right?

It wasn’t like I’d ever had to pretend not to overhear conversations revolving around the recent depravity of my favorite cousin. Or listen to my mother trying to convince herself that her sister—whom she adores—hadn’t somehow caused her daughter’s moral downfall. Painful as it was, sometimes these things just happened. And being a good Christian woman, my mother was not about to keep me from visiting my aunt’s house, lest she steal away what had to be the only positive peer influence Ymir had left in her life.

For the record, I’ve hung out with Ymir’s friends and girlfriend. They’re great.

Anyway, my mantra works twofold. In the event my parents aren’t able to handle what I have to tell them, I’ll be set. They don’t have to pay for my college, and I have enough squirreled away to tide me over before finding a job in Sina.

Not gonna lie, though. Thinking of my scholarships and grades as insurance feels like shit. It also feels better being safe than sorry. Maybe if I’m lucky we can all just sit back and laugh about it in a few years.

 


End file.
